This week, Mrs Stroke Bloke and I are in Rhode Island, the home of legendary Scottish band Talking Heads.
I finished that bit on Le Corbusier, the godfather of Modernist architecture. When I said the bit would be more serious and more absurd than last week’s post, I was half-right.
Sure, some nuggets of truth are hidden among the 6m 40s of A Story Is A Machine For Living In, but there are plenty of nuggets of sweet absurdity to keep folks engaged.
This got me to thinking about how, sometimes, the medium is the message.
We’re thinking of going to pick up a new desk tomorrow. One of those ones that incorporates the wall into its structure, and folds flat into the wall when it’s not in use.
Sorry, Michael. I’m going somewhere with this.
We pick up the story after our hero and key to the secrets of graphic design, logos, and intellectual property (Tristram Hunt, for it is he) has twice submitted his name unsuccessfully for selection as a Labour parliamentary candidate…
After being parachuted out of New Labour’s Milbank Palace into a safe seat in Stoke, the biographer of Engels and picket line-crosser spent five years slashing Labour’s majority before letting it be known that he would be giving up the seat at a time when the Labour Party and Jeremy Corbyn were at their most embattled.
If you’re reading this after last week, I guess we’re still here. Or, at least, you are.
And yes, me too, still thinking about the dissemination of ideas through graphic designs and logos and t-shirts.
After trailing a post on graphic design and democratisation last week, I received an interesting email on the subject of graphic design, logos, and sloganeering.
…perhaps the way to think about the democratization of graphic design isn’t to think about whether the act of creating a design is accessible to more people; but rather to think whether it is easier to spread.
Man, what a week.
In chronological order
- the Grenfell Tower fire started on the morning of 14 June killing
6 12 17 30 5479;
- early on 19 June, a clean-shaven white man attacked people near the Muslim Welfare House in Finsbury Park; and
- later that day, Brexit talks between Britain and the EU began.
Long-suffering readers of the blog may recall that I’m a sucker for a good airport.
Yes, Copenhagen is a good example. But this past weekend, as President Trump stuffed sachets of ketchup into his hand luggage before heading off on his whistle-stop tour of some of the world’s top religious sites, we were at Washington’s Dulles International Airport.
I’ve been kind of obsessed with chairs for around a decade-and-a-half.
I can’t remember if it started when I got a copy of 100 Masterpieces from the Vitra Design Museum Collection, or if I got the book because the seeds of my obsession had already started to sprout.
In fact, I’m surprised this hasn’t cropped up on the blog before.
A day after the result of the #EUref came in, Mrs Stroke Bloke and I hopped on a train to London. Like the narrator of this wee ditty:
“Smoke lingers ’round your fingers / Train, heave on to Euston…”
(Smiths sceptics might find the above performance surprisingly muscular)
It was, y’see, an opportunity to check out an exclave of the soon-to-be nation of #Scotlond. By this time, Scotland’s First Minister had already reached out to the Mayor of London to discuss how their remain-voting areas could ameliorate the impact of Brexit. Continue reading London